Good Thing

HOPE IT’S NOT MUCH FURTHER,” Norval said. “My legs are cramping!”

“I think we’re almost there.” His brother Lyle steered the little Crosley Hotshot around another bend in the narrow road. The woody scent of cherry blossoms wafted on the breeze, unhindered by any barrier but the windshield. Nothing like a fine spring day to go touring Japanese backroads in a fiery little convertible.

No sooner had the next village come into sight than one tire gave a bang, and the car bucked like a bronco. Lyle wrestled the steering wheel and brought the Hotshot to a stop. “You okay?” he asked.

“Banged my knee, but not bad.” Norval unfolded his lanky frame from the tight quarters of the passenger seat.

Lyle too got out. Both airmen stretched out their kinks, nodded to a flock of children who’d come running at the noise, then inspected the blown tire.

“Good thing you have a spare,” Norval said. He unfastened the tire from the back of the convertible.

Lyle rummaged in the trunk. “Good thing we still have plenty of leave left,” he said. “There’s no jack.”

They gazed down the road at the village. No American presence to be seen. Did they even have cars here?

detail of “Japanese and foreign people walking along the Sumida River among cherry trees in full bloom,” by Hiroshige (1797-1858)

Lyle turned to the children.

“Good thing you’ve been here long enough to learn the lingo,” Norval murmured.

Lyle rattled off a question, and the children piped up with eager answers. He turned to his brother. “No cars, but they have several fine wagons, if we want to hire one.” He studied the convertible.

Norval joined him. “Bet I can lift it long enough for you to change the tire.” He flexed his biceps.

Lyle grinned. “You’re on!” He got all set and gave the thumbs up.

Norval got a good grip on the back bumper and heaved.

The children shrieked with laughter, and chattered like birds while Lyle swapped out the tires and cinched the lug nuts tight.

Norval lowered the car’s rear end. “What are they saying?” he asked.

“If you’re big enough to lift a car, how will you ever fit inside?”

Norval, ever the clown, bowed to the children, then went through all kinds of contortions to fold himself back into the low passenger seat.

Their young audience laughed and clapped as Lyle started up the Hotshot. With a wave, the two airmen drove on down the road, searching for lodgings for the night.

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From the author’s family history: Norval and Lyle served in the American Army Air Corps (later renamed the Air Force), based in Japan during the Korean War. Norval tried to learn to speak Japanese but was advised by one amused young lady not to try again. His mistakes could get him into trouble!

text: © 2023 Joyce Holt

artwork: 19th century painting. Public domain info here.

Disenchanted

INGA WALKED TOWARD HOME, her basket empty. Sometimes after a spring storm she found piles of kelp, good for strewing on the fields. None today. She swept one last look at the empty horizon, then back to land.

She shaded her eyes. Who was that coming down the path from Vidareidi village?

Not who. What. The village sow. The lean old pig trotted along, her snout in the air.

Just this morning two villagers had bantered over that same sow. “I’m nearly out of bacon,” Bengt had said. “Not going to last until Curly-Tail’s next litter.”

“Never enough pork for you,” Iørn said.

“Where do you think she finds a boar to mate with? Not a single one on the island!”

“I have no idea.”

Everyone in the village shared in the pork come slaughter time. No one on Vidoy island had any clue where Curly-Tail ran off to every spring, but she always came back sassy, soon fat with another litter of piglets.

Now here came the sow, snuffling at a scent on the breeze, curly tail flicking in eagerness, beady eyes fixed on the sea.

“North Sea (sketch),” by Carl Bloch (1834-1890)

Inga glanced that way. Where moments before waves had smacked against sky, a billowy mist now glided like a ghost. An eerie sight out of legend. A magical floating island.

Inga dropped the basket. She patted herself, searching for metal. Iron breaks otherworldly spells and enchantments. Five iron keys on a ring, they’d have to do. She pulled the ribbon from her braid, knotted it to the key-ring, ran to cross paths with the sow.

Curly-Tail squealed displeasure when the woman grabbed her tail. “Just a moment, old girl,” Inga panted, hanging on, swiftly knotting the keys to the thin, bony curl.

The sow pulled loose and galloped into the surf. Off she went, swimming like mad, snout aimed at the drifting mist.

More fog rolled in, shrouding the distance, creeping up the shore. Inga shivered, picked up her basket, made her way home. What she’d say when her husband wanted use of the keys, she didn’t know. Had she guessed right?

Only a dozen paces along, Inga felt a change in the air. The fog shimmered, melted like shadows under a noon sun.

She found the village in an uproar. Lookouts had spotted an island unveiled by the dissipating fog. An island where none had been before. Villagers manned a boat and rowed out for a closer look.

Inga watched from shore as they returned, bellowing with laughter. Curly-Tail swam along behind the boat, tethered, snorting her annoyance to be hauled home again.

“The island is teeming with swine!” one boatman called out.

“A floating island!” another added. “But floating no more. It’s been disenchanted. By iron.” He held up the key ring.

“Who’s the quick wit who helped Curly-Tail break the spell and fix the island in place?”

Inga strode forward, her unbound hair tangled by the sea-breeze. “I’ll take my ribbon back, please. And my keys, thank you kindly.”

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folktale from Vidoy, Faeroe Islands

text: © 2021 Joyce Holt

artwork: 19th century painting. Public domain info here.

Death from the Sea

A crash of metal jarred the old man awake.

He hadn’t meant to sleep — but at his age, sitting down meant dozing off. A twitchy leg had knocked over the pot he had placed ready to hand.

The old beggar scrambled to his feet, peering around in the dark. The fire had burned down to embers. How long had he slept? Tonight of all nights–

He cracked the door open and listened. No sound.

He edged out into the street, looked up past the eaves. The stars in the moonless sky pointed toward midnight. That late? He gulped and listened again.

Nothing but sea-sounds. Waves shushing in and out on the shore below the deserted village, gurgling, rumbling–

detail from “Water and Bamboo Dwelling,” by Ni Zan (1301-1374)

Not waves. The breath of the beast clambering up from the sea! The ground shivered with its silent tread.

The beggar darted back inside the widow’s house, fanned the coals to a blaze. He lit all the lanterns he’d gathered. For most of them he had shaped a red paper sheath, using all that was left after papering the door in brilliant crimson.

The beggar ran in and out, hanging lanterns from the eaves and bare tree limbs until the street around this one house blazed gold and red.

On village outskirts, a sheep bleated in panic. The villagers had herded their livestock with them in flight to the mountains, but one had been left behind.

There came a thumping and crashing, then Peach Blossom village fell silent.

The beggar eased back inside. By the door one more candle sat ready, lit and flickering. Beside it, a string of whip-cannons, each a tiny packet of black powder branching from one common fuse.

The ground trembled. At the beginning of every year, on the eve of the second new moon after winter solstice, the Nian came up from the sea to ravage the land. Countless warriors had battled in vain against those deadly horns and fangs and claws. Battled, and died.

The beggar peered through the crack of the door.

A huge horned form loomed from the shadows. The air reeked from the monster’s breath. It glared at all the shimmering lanterns, and growled. A great horny foot stamped a step closer, long dagger-like claws digging grooves in the dirt of the street. The house shook.

The beast squinted against the light of glimmering lanterns. Nostrils big as windows snuffled the air, taking in the scent of man.

One lone man left in Peach Blossom village. One wise old man.

The beggar lit the end of the fuse, leaped out the door, threw the string of firecrackers to land at the Nian’s feet. He banged the metal ladle inside the pot, around and around, and shouted to add to the clamor. The whip-cannons burst, crack after crack, with blinding flashes of magnesium.

Glaring light, brilliant crimson, nerve-jangling noise– too much for the night-prowling monster from the depths. It backed away, hissing in anger, then turned and fled to the sea. Vanquished — until the next New Year’s eve.

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Another version of this folktale from China has the Nian dwelling in the mountains, and descending on New Year’s Eve to terrorize the villagers.

text: © 2021 Joyce Holt

artwork: 19th century (or older) paintings: in the public domain, according to these sources:

wikiart: “This artwork is in public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 70 years or less.”

wikipedia: “This work is in the public domain in its country of origin and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author’s life plus 100 years or fewer.”

{{PD-US-expired}} : published anywhere (or registered with the U.S. Copyright Office) before 1926 and public domain in the U.S.